David Wishart - Solid Citizens

‘Sorry to disturb you, lady,’ I said. ‘Is this the Roscius place?’

‘It is.’ She frowned and brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. ‘Was it my husband you wanted?’

‘If he’s around.’

‘He’s muck-spreading the top field. Just carry on as far as you can go.’

I thanked her, remounted the horse and walked it up the track, past a dozen rows of vine-stocks, ditto of what were probably fruit trees, and a field that was bare at present but showed signs of having been tilled and got ready for the first season’s planting: small enough for a farm, sure, but altogether, like the farmhouse itself, well-managed and in pretty good shape — or so it looked to my townie’s eye, anyway. Certainly a lot of hard work had gone in there. Whatever else Roscius was, he was no slacker.

As far as you can go , his wife had said. Sure enough, two or three hundred yards further along the track ended in a field where a guy with a fork was spreading manure from the back of an ox wagon.

I tied the horse’s rein to one of the hurdles at the field’s edge and went on over. ‘Quintus Roscius?’ I said.

He stopped, glanced up, frowned, and grounded the fork.

‘That’s me.’ The frown had settled into a scowl.

‘Marcus Corvinus. I’m-’

‘I know who you are.’ He was a big guy, easily six feet, and built like an ox himself, heavily muscled, dark-browed and broad as a barn door. He hawked and spat to one side. ‘Or I can make a good guess. I’ve been expecting you.’

He didn’t sound or look too friendly, but that was natural under the circumstances. ‘Fine,’ I said easily. ‘No problem. That’ll save a bit of trouble. You got time for a chat?’

‘No. But go ahead anyway. Get it over with.’

‘Fair enough.’ I paused. ‘You, uh, had a run-in with Caesius in town, so I’m told, a couple of days before he died. Care to tell me about it?’

The scowl deepened. ‘“Run-in” isn’t what I’d call it,’ he said. ‘We had words, sure, him and me, mostly on my side. But it was no more than that. Just words. And I’ll tell you now, straight out, I’d nothing to do with his death.’

‘I’m not accusing you, pal,’ I said. ‘I’m just getting my facts straight, that’s all. So what were these words about? Something to do with a loan, wasn’t it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You like to elaborate, maybe?’

‘It’s simple enough. We do OK here, generally, but the profit margin is pretty small, and the past couple of years I’d been going through a bad patch. Three poor harvests in a row, stock dying, spoiled seed. One thing after another, and they just mounted up. Finally, I went to Caesius — his family and mine have links that go way back — and he loaned me a few thousand with the farm as collateral. No hurry to pay him back, he said; just as soon as I could manage. He was only too pleased to help me out. Only then, seven days ago, he sends round his bailiff saying he wants the debt settled by the end of the year or he’ll foreclose.’

‘You didn’t have a contract? Something in writing?’

‘Sure I had. For what it was worth. Only I’m no great reader, me, and nor is the wife. Letters, straightforward stuff, sure, no problem, but a legal document’s different. I haven’t got the head for that. I signed what he gave me and took him at his word about the no hurry business. It turned out that his lawyer pal had put in a clause about settlement being due on the first day of the new year or the property was forfeit, so he had me over a barrel.’

‘“Lawyer pal”? That’d be Publius Novius, would it?’

‘Yeah, that’s the one. There’s another bastard. They’re all hand-in-glove, these nobs. Anyway, there was no way I could get the money together, not in hard cash, not a quarter of it. I went over to Caesius’s house right away to explain, ask for a bit of extra time, but he sent out word he was too busy to see me. So then when I saw him in the street the next day I went up to him and asked him to his face. When he tried to give me the bum’s rush again I lost my temper and told him straight what I thought of him, right there in the open where everyone could hear.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s all that happened, the long and short of it. The farm’s worth ten times the loan, easy, and Caesius knew it. What would you have done?’

Yeah; fair enough. Me, I’d probably have punched the bugger’s lights out into the bargain and got into even worse trouble. ‘So what happens now?’ I said.

‘If we can’t pay, then like I said come next month we’re out. But my family’s been here for five generations, and I won’t go easy. Maybe now Caesius is dead I can cut a deal with his brother. We’ll just have to see. Meanwhile, whatever happens’ — he indicated the manure — ‘the jobs’ve got to be done, so I do them.’

‘A deal with Lucius?’

‘Sure, with Lucius. Who else? He’s bound to be the heir, isn’t he? Caesius didn’t have any other family.’

‘You know him?’

‘Well enough to speak to, anyway. Most people do. Old Lucius Caesius isn’t a bad lad, for all he’s got a drink problem, and he’s been up against it himself these last thirty, forty years since his father threw him out. When things’re settled he’ll have more money than he needs to last him for the rest of his days without bothering about taking my farm from me.’ He reached for the manure fork. ‘Anyway, that’s what I’m hoping.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, right.’ I hesitated. ‘You, uh, go into town often of an evening?’

‘Sometimes.’ The hand on the fork paused, and his tone was guarded. ‘For a cup or two of wine and a chat with friends, like anyone else.’

‘How about the night Caesius was killed?’

‘No. I was at home. You can ask my wife. She’ll tell you.’

‘Fair enough.’ Well, he seemed pretty genuine, and I’d no cause from what had gone before to think any different. There wasn’t anything else I could do here at present. ‘Thanks for your time, pal. Sorry to disturb you. I’ll leave you to it.’

‘That’s all?’ The frown finally lifted, and he looked relieved.

‘Sure. Why not? I told you, I’m just getting my facts straight. I’ll see you around.’

I collected my horse, rode back down the track, and carried on into town.

OK, now for my old friend Publius Novius. His office, I remembered from the last time I’d talked to him a year and a half previously, was this side of the town centre, near the baths: a pretty up-market affair for a provincial law business, heavy on the marble — or marble facing, anyway — and obviously meant to impress on his clients that here was a guy at the top of his professional tree.

Just inside the Tiburtine Gate — which was the one the road from Castrimoenium passed through — was a horse trough with two or three nags already in residence. This time of day, the town would be at its busiest, and if I was going to be using the back streets — which I was, to get to the baths — I’d do better on foot. I left my horse for later collection moored to a vacant iron ring and happily fraternising with the mare parked next to him and headed off in the direction of Novius’s.

It wasn’t difficult to find: exactly where I remembered it, in the street that started opposite the baths and carried on down to the market square. I mounted the carefully scrubbed and polished steps, flanked by their marble-faced pillars, and went inside.

‘Hi, pal,’ I said to the young clerk on the lobby desk. ‘Novius in and free at present?’

‘Did you have an appointment, sir?’ The clerk reached for the wax tablet beside him.

‘No. But the name’s Marcus Corvinus. He’ll know who I am. Silius Nerva of the senate asked me to look into the death of Quintus Caesius. I understand he was a friend and client.’